


We're Not Broken, Just Bent (And We Can Learn to Love Again)

by allofthefandoms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Pining, Polyamory, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know you’re trying to help,” Steve says gently.  “But I don’t think the Veterans’ Association is really equipped to deal with PTSD from being frozen for 70 years and having to fight your brainwashed best friend.”</p>
<p>“Well, when you put it like that,” Sam replies dryly, feeling foolish.</p>
<p>“Look, you’re just trying your best and I really appreciate it, but…but talking about it isn’t what I need.  It’s itching under my skin, making me restless.  I need to get out, but I have no idea where to start.”</p>
<p>“Road trip,” Sam says, suddenly inspired.  “The great American tradition.  Drive across the US in a car that breaks down too much, see the sights, bemoan flat expanses and bad diner food.  See what you’ve spent your whole life fighting for.”</p>
<p>“A road trip?  Really?  That’s your grand solution?”</p>
<p>“Says the man who has always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”</p>
<p>“Got me there,” Steve says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Not Broken, Just Bent (And We Can Learn to Love Again)

**Author's Note:**

> The Steve/Bucky Big Bang was the perfect excuse to write my favs going on road trips and falling in love. So I did it. Feels and sexy time ensued.

Grounded. 

God, what a bitter word.  Sam had failed, failed utterly, and as always, someone else had paid the price.  The steady beep of the monitors syncopates against the softly playing music, and is Sam’s only company.

Steve looks oddly tiny under all the monitors, stitches and bruises littering his face.  It’s only been twelve hours since Steve was dragged out of the river, but Sam’s been around enough wounded soldiers to know it looks more like it’s been days since the attack and not just hours.

But the real fear, sitting in the base of Sam’s stomach like a lead weight is not for Steve’s physical health.  Sam knew Steve let this happen to himself.  He’d seen Steve fight, knew the almost inhuman grace and strength with which the man fought.  He had seen Steve deflect fists, bullets, knives…Men like that didn’t look like this by mistake.  Steve wanted this.  Steve had given up.  Sam’s inner therapist is screaming helplessly as Sam remembers that when he had asked Steve what made him happy, the man hadn’t had an answer.

Sam reaches out, touching Steve’s hand lightly.  What could have made such a vital and strong man give up like that?

But Sam knows that whatever Steve is feeling, it’s not his cross to bear.  Steve has to come to terms with this on his own, and all Sam can do is be there for support.  Sam’s known enough veterans to understand that Steve would hate feeling pressured, especially by someone he didn’t really know.  (The bonds forged in combat were strong in some ways but not in others.  Steve trusts Sam, sure, but he doesn’t really know him.)  And so Sam just rests his hand on top of Steve’s pale hand and waits.

Steve wakes up a day later. 

(The nurses keep saying that a normal man wouldn’t have survived the first hour, but Sam doesn’t relax until he hears the first pained gasp as Steve comes to.)

“On your left.”  Steve’s laugh, as ragged and weak as it was, is music to Sam’s ears.

Despite how fast Steve healed, he was still in the hospital for a week.  Once he’s properly awake, the nurses stop letting Sam keep a 24 hour vigil and visiting hours seems to go by in the blink of an eye.  It makes Sam itchy and restless.

He spends a lot of time in his back yard with his birds.  Well, they aren’t _his_ birds, per say, but he puts out seed for them, and he’s gotten a bit of a reputation in the bird community for being a good source of seeds.  There is one bird that’s special, a red tailed hawk that Sam had raised since Sam had found it with a broken wing as a fledgling.  He had fed it, build a home for it, and even sometimes, during the worst of the winter, let the bird inside into a special bird proof room.  Redwing was only semi-domesticated, and he hated people, but would happily perch of Sam’s shoulder and groom him or let Sam stroke his feathers.  While Sam was waiting for Steve to be released, Redwing was Sam’s only companion.

“I don’t think I should go back to my old apartment,” Steve says as he’s filling out hospital release forms so he could sign himself out.

“You know there’s always a bed for you at my place,” Sam replies softly.  Steve’s smile is alarmingly gratifying.

Steve settles in remarkably quickly, and even Redwing loves Steve.

“Of course he does,” Sam says with a rueful laugh as Redwing churrs happily under Steve’s gentle fingers.  Steve gives Sam a soft, slight smile.  Those smiles worry Sam.  They are too small, don’t reach Steve’s eyes.  Sam quietly leaves out VA therapy pamphlets where he knows Steve will find them, and after the third week, Steve finally says something.

“I know you’re trying to help,” Steve says gently.  “But I don’t think the Veterans’ Association is really equipped to deal with PTSD from being frozen for 70 years and having to fight your brainwashed best friend.”

“Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” Sam replies dryly, feeling foolish.

“Look, you’re just trying your best and I really appreciate it, but…but talking about it isn’t what I need.  It’s itching under my skin, making me restless.  I need to get _out_ , but I have no idea where to start.”

“Road trip,” Sam says, suddenly inspired.  “The great American tradition.  Drive across the US in a car that breaks down too much, see the sights, bemoan flat expanses and bad diner food.  See what you’ve spent your whole life fighting for.”

“A road trip?  Really?  That’s your grand solution?”

“Says the man who has always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

“Got me there,” Steve says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes.

~ ~ ~

“I can afford a better car,” Steve says dubiously as they pack their things into a rickety RV.

“That’s part of the charm,” Sam assures him, grinning.

“Yes, because a car that can break down at any moment is so charming…”

“It’s not a proper road trip if the car doesn’t break down in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m making you walk if it does.”  Sam laughs, and Steve’s smile comes easily.

“Wonder if we’ll find Bucky out there.”

“Steve, this is about you, not him.”

“But what if we find him?”

“If we find him, great, but we’re not looking for him, okay?”  Sam isn’t smiling anymore, eyes downcast.  Steve feels a flood of guilt.  Sam’s doing this for him.  He shouldn’t abuse that trust and easy friendship just because he hopes Bucky might still be out there.

“It’s okay, man,” Sam says gently, hand on Steve’s arm.  “If there was even a chance Riley was still out there, I’d be doing the exact same thing.  We’re burning daylight, so hop in.” 

Sam’s decided to drive north for a while, letting Steve see a bit of rural New York before cutting back down through the Great Plains.  It’s early enough that they are one of the few cars on the road, and evergreen trees whip by.   Steve has the window down, breathing in the pine scented air as Sam blasts a Motown radio station.

For the first time in a long while, Steve feels at peace.

They drive for 12 hours before pulling over at a Motel 6.  The room is spare and the food miserable, but there is a shower and beds, and Steve was never one for complaining.  Sam turns on ESPN, half an eye on the basketball game as they lounge.

“Tell me about him,” Sam says finally.

“What?”

“About Bucky.”

“There’s a lot to tell.”

“Got all night.  Besides, I got a feeling it would make you feel better.”  Sam’s not wrong, and Steve knows it.

“I was 8 when I first met James Buchanan Barnes.”

_“Queer.”  Steve is 8 years old and it’s the worst thing Billy Howe and his other 10 year old friends can think of to spit at the boy who is too smart for 3 rd grade and was allowed to take classes with the older kids despite looking like he was still 6.  Steve is vibrating with rage.  He’s not a queer.  (He pretends his raging crush on Rudolph Valentino was just because he was a movie star his mother found dreamy.  It’s not like he told anyone, anyway.)_

_“Leave him alone.”_

_“Or what, Barnes?”  Jack looks 12, and has Steve hoisted up by his shirt collar, making it even harder than normal to breathe._

_“Or I’ll cave your teeth in.”  The boy in the mouth of the alley is holding a brick, and it’s enough to scatter Jack and his little gang.  Steve slumps to the dirty sidewalk, gasping._

_“Why didn’t you run?”_

_“Couldn’t give them the satisfaction.”  The boy shakes his head wonderingly._

_“Sure you don’t have a death wish?  I’m James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”_

_“Am I your friend?”_

_“I’d sure like you to be.”_

“Why do I get the feeling Bucky hauled your ass out of a lot of scrapes?”

“Because he did.”

_“You need to be more careful, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, wiping blood off of Steve’s split lip.  “You can’t always count on me to be there.  You’re 15 now.”  Steve gave a wry shrug, looking at his too bony hands._

_“Well, they shouldn’t have been treating Ms. Jones like that just because she’s black and her husband’s gone.”  Bucky sighed fondly.  Steve had always been someone with a keen sense of right and wrong and an inability to stay quiet in the face of injustice.  It had gotten Steve in fights ever since Bucky could remember, and it was only getting worse as the bullies got bigger and Steve didn’t._

_“One of these days this is going to get you killed.”_

_“Nothing means more to me than dying for what I believe in.”_

_“Being killed by thugs in a back alley means nothing, Stevie.  Besides, think of me.  What would I do_ without you?”  Steve gave a sad little smile and Bucky was gone.

“He kissed me on my 16th birthday,” Steve says wistfully and Sam started. 

“You were lovers?”

“We were everything to each other. ”

_Steve was finally back from his latest trip to the hospital.  Sarah could barely afford it, but between her and Bucky, they had scrimped together just enough to pay for Steve’s medication.  It was his 16 th birthday, and Bucky was so glad he was safe at home and on the mend._

_“Happy birthday, Stevie.”_

_“Is it?” Steve said, blinking up at Bucky with sleep eyes._

_“Yeah, you’re 16 now.”  Steve gave a slight smile, reaching for Bucky._

_“You don’t have to stay with me, just because I’m sick,” he said softly._

_“Nonsense.  It’s your birthday.  No place I’d rather be anyway.”  Steve blushed, ducking his head.  Bucky couldn’t tell him how glad he was to see healthy normal color in Steve’s cheeks again instead of the sickly pallor of the fever from the week before.  He’s so happy that Steve’s eyes are clear and that the inky circles under his eyes have begun to fade as the color returns and even though Steve lost 10 pounds he couldn’t afford to lose, leaving him even more like a skeleton than usual, Bucky still thinks he’s the most beautiful person alive._

_“What?” Steve asked.  “Why are you staring at me?”_

_“Just glad you’re alive, punk,” Bucky said, voice oddly tight.  “We almost lost you there for a few days.”  Steve’s expression is thoughtful, as if he knows there is more to it than Bucky is willing to admit._

_Stroking a thin strand of hair out of Steve’s eyes, Bucky decides it’s now or never.  Steve almost died, almost left him, and Bucky couldn’t stand the thought of Steve going to God without knowing just how much Bucky loved him._

_“Love you,” Bucky murmured._

_“I know,” Steve said sleepily._

_“No, I…”  Taking a deep breath, Bucky leaned over, pressing a swift and chaste kiss to Steve’s chapped lips.  Steve froze and Bucky was sure he was about to lose his best friend for good when Steve smiled like the sun had just come out for the very first time._

_“I love you too.”_

“It’s the only time I told him I loved him,” Steve says and Sam can tell how wretched he feels about it.  “We pretended it was nothing, never acted on it.  We grew up and Bucky liked dames and I liked Bucky.  Never told him that I never got over my teenaged crush.  That’s why I have to find him,” Steve went on.  “I…I can’t leave him Sam.  He was everything to me, and I have a chance to help him the way he always helped me and I _can’t_ leave him when he needs me.”

“We’ll find him,” Sam promises.  “We will.”

~ ~ ~

Steve won’t deny that Sam is beautiful.   He’s lithe and strong and supple, and Steve itches to draw the way his neck twists when Sam throws his head back and laughs.  Steve dismissed it as an artist’s itch at first, but it grew harder and harder to ignore the heat that pooled in his stomach at the sight of Sam stepping out of a dingy motel bathroom with a towel around his waist, beads of water trailing across his pecs and abs, harder and harder to keep his eyes from tracing the curves and swoops of Sam’s body as he slouches in the passenger seat.

They are in the middle of nowhere Kansas when they pull of the road for the night.  The clerk at the front desk can’t be older than 18, and she stares at them blankly as they approach her.

“The only room available is a queen,” she says flatly, not looking up from her phone.  Sam and Steve stare at each other for a long moment.

“Done a lot worse,” Sam said finally, giving Steve a small shrug.  “We’ll take it.”

Calling the bed in their room a queen was generous.  Sam takes one look at the once green blanket and sighs, fighting to put a good face on things.

“A grand adventure, you said,” Steve teases, and Sam cracks a real smile, the tension breaking.  The shower is tiny, but at least it’s clean, and they take turns showering and getting ready for bed.  They find it easiest to fit in the bed by spooning.  Steve’s too broad shouldered for them to comfortably fit lying on their backs, and Steve has never minded being a human pillow.  It happened often enough.  Sam drifts off easily once the light is off, but for Steve it isn’t that easy.

Steve’s been cursed with the libido of a teenager ever since the serum and being pressed chest to back against someone he was trying not to crush on was pretty much the worst thing in the ‘keep Steve’s dick disinterested’ department.  Every soft snuffle and gentle shift went right to stoking the warmth pooling behind Steve’s navel and it was all Steve could do to keep himself from getting an erection.

(He was only half successful.  There was only so much thinking about the Red Skull could do.)

So Steve lies awake, feeling absolutely wretched.  Sam doesn’t deserve this, doubly so when they are chasing the man Steve loves more than anyone.  Sam deserves better than a man who’s lonely, horny and maybe a little bit in love.  Sam deserves flowers and candlelight dinners and slow dancing and-

Steve has to pull away, dislodging Sam, who snuffles and blinks sleepily awake.  Steve flushes, sitting up and folding his hands over his obvious erection, hoping Sam doesn’t notice.

But Sam, as eagle eyed as his code name would suggest, gives Steve a knowing look.

“I can help you with that.”  Steve shakes his head, trembling.

“I don’t want you to do this out of pity.”

“And if I’m doing it because you’re hot?”  Steve blinks, tilting his head in confusion.

“I thought you wanted me to help you pick up girls.”

“Because I thought there was no way in hell I’d ever have a chance with you.  Besides, have you looked at yourself in a mirror recently?  Even if I was straight, which I’m not, I wouldn’t be that straight.”  Steve gives a choked giggle before hesitantly leaning in for a kiss.

Kissing Sam is worlds away from the few kisses Steve had snatched from Bucky.  Sam kisses like there is all the time in the world (which there is now), hands sure where they fall in the soft curve of Steve’s waist.  Sam kisses with intent and desire and soon all that heat that had pooled in Steve’s stomach is in every limb, leaving him breathless.

“Damn,” Sam breathes, eyes dark with desire as he looks Steve over.  “You could come just from kissing, couldn’t you?”  Steve blushes, and Sam laughs in response, voice low and rich.  But when Sam cups him through his boxers, Steve really does come, soaking his underwear with long spurts of come.

Sam looks at him, slightly wide eyed, before pulling him back in for a hungry kiss.  This one is dominating and forceful and Steve just surrenders to it, opening his mouth so Sam can lick him way inside.

“So fucking beautiful,” Sam growls, and Steve feels his cock twitch despite his recent orgasm.  It feels like Sam has grown an extra pair of hands, drinking in the curves of Steve’s chest and back and ass.  It leaves Steve feeling like a live wire, unable to do anything but respond to the jolts of pleasure rushing through him.

“So responsive,” Sam breaths, voice infused with wonder as he tweaks one of Steve’s nipples, making the man jolt and shudder.

“Have you…?” Sam asks hesitantly, running a hand down behind Steve’s balls, making the man whine even as he shook his head.

“Do you want to?”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer that.  Sam has been nothing but careful and reverent, and he knows he would do anything to keep Steve from feeling discomfort, but there is a flood of guilt.  This…this was special, and he only got to do it once.  He…he wasn’t going to waste that on a fling, no matter how much he cared for Sam.

As if he can see the emotions warring on Steve’s face, Sam lifts his hand to place it on Steve’s thigh, kissing him softly.

“I won’t be hurt if you say no.”  Steve looks relieved and Sam can’t help but smile.

“Plenty of other things we can do,” Sam said with a grin that was half lecherous but mostly just tender.  “Sit up.”  Steve watches in awe as Sam settles between his legs, stripping off the last of his clothes.  He can’t help but trace the curves of Sam’s cock with his eyes.  It’s flushed and almost purple, slanted slightly to the right as it bumps against the smooth planes of Sam’s stomach.  The generous thickness makes Steve’s mouth water and the bead of pre-come at the tip glimmers in the faint light from the street light outside their window.  He has the absurd urge to draw it, and smothers a giggle.

“What?” Sam asks, indignant.

“You have such a pretty dick.” Sam blushes, and Steve reaches out to brush hesitant fingers against the tip, collecting the wetness there and bringing it to his lips.  This draws a choked moan out of Sam, and emboldened, Steve reaches down to trace the fat head with the tip of his tongue.

Steve’s familiar with this part, having used his diminutive size  and appeal to a certain type of man to make ends meet when Bucky couldn’t find enough work at the docks, and it’s still easy to swallow Sam down after 70 years on ice.  Sam’s surprised and breathless moan makes Steve smile around his shaft.

It isn’t long before Sam’s yanking on Steve’s hair as he comes, choking on something that might be Steve’s name.  For his part, Steve is hard and wanting again, rutting gently against the bed with a sigh.  Sam arches an eyebrow before shoving his hands down Steve’s boxers and kissing him until he comes with a whimper.

They sag together, laying there in their cooling sweat and come for a long moment before Sam moves with a reluctant sigh.  He gets up, returning with a washcloth and cleaning Steve before getting back into bed.  Instead of returning to their former spoon, Sam curls up on Steve’s chest, falling to sleep just as quickly as he had earlier that evening.  But this time, Steve follows right after him, a soft smile on his face.

~ ~ ~

Arizona is pretty dry and dusty.  Red scrubland as far as they eye can see.  And with the distinct lack of hills, Steve finds he can see pretty far.

Sam assures him the Grand Canyon is a marvel.  Steve had seen pictures as a young man before the war, and had always wanted to go, but now that he’s staring out across the dry desert, he’s not so sure. 

Sam is whistling along to the twanging country music on the radio, one hand on the wheel and the other out the window.  The road is straight and flat and Steve is uncontrollably fidgety.

“You okay, big guy?”

“Never spent this much time in a car before,” Steve confesses.

“Wanna get out for a while?  It’s almost lunch time.  We could have a picnic.”

“In the middle of nowhere?”

“Steve, my man,” Sam says with a laugh.  “You forget.  Most of America is the middle of nowhere.  You gotta seize the moment .”

“Fine, fine.  Pull over at a diner or something and we’ll go out and eat food in the desert in the middle of nowhere just to scratch this itch of yours.”

It takes them three hours to find a diner.

Steve doesn’t know if he should be amused or annoyed when they finally pull into a gas station with a diner.  The neon lights are hissing in the dimming afternoon light, and the smell of grease and fried food makes Steve’s stomach grumble.  Some things haven’t changed since he’s been on ice, and greasy diner food is one of them.

The waitress grins, mostly at Steve, and guides them to a corner booth.

“Can I get you two anything to drink?”

“Coke for me,” Steve says.

“Just water for me,” Sam adds.

There’s just one other group in the diner, a group of bikers.  They are clad in leather, drinking coffee and taking loudly among themselves.  There were about 10 of them, a pair of tables pushed together so they could all sit around.  There was only one woman, and Steve couldn’t stop looking at her.

“Doesn’t she look familiar?” Steve asked Sam, nodding to the back of the woman who was slouched over the table, a chipped mug in her fist.  Sam shrugged, taking a sip of his water as he perused the menu. 

“Does it matter?”  Steve sighs and shrugs.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, so he tried to just drop it.

“Can I have the breakfast platter?” Steve asks when the waitress comes back around.

“Hash browns and a burger and fries for me,” Sam says.

“Coming right up, boys.”

The bell like laughter makes Steve look up again, shoulders tense.  That’s Natasha’s laugh.  He’s sure of it.  But she’s away, isn’t she?  A diner in Arizona is the last place he would have expected her to run.  But when she stands, Steve recognizes the grace in her body instantly.  He’s fought with her (and fucked her on one memorable and regrettable night while they had been on the run) and there is no way that body can belong to anyone else.

She slides into the booth beside Sam and shoves the hood of her jacket down, revealing a tightly wrapped bun and a sharp smile.

“Never thought I’d run into you two out here.  Following a lead?”

“Not exactly,” Steve says softly.  “Got a restless itch a few weeks ago, cooped up and useless.  Sam decided to drag me on the great American tradition of the Trans-continental road trip.”  Natasha’s laugh is warm.

“And what about you?” Sam asks.  “Didn’t think you’d be finding yourself out here either.”

“The desert air suits me,” Tasha says, voice light.  Neither Sam nor Steve is convinced, and she heaves a sigh.  “ Less flippantly?  I’m honestly not sure.  The fellas I’m with are an interesting bunch, and I have found a new love of motorcycles.”

“You’d be terrifying in a biker gang.”

“They’re good people,” Natasha insists.  “Rough around the edges, sure, but I think that’s probably why I like them.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says.  “And it’s not like you can’t take care of yourself.”

“Hey Tash,” calls a burly man from the other table.  “You know these guys?”

“Old friends.”

“Hey wait!  Is…Holy shit that’s Captain America!”  There is a sudden press of noise and Steve finds himself surrounded by large, bearded, leather clad men and a few women who are all looking at him with a mix of awe and fear.

“I never thought I’d get to meet _Captain America_ ,” one man breaths, unconsciously touching the shield patch on the sleeve of his jacket.  “Hell, I first got into bikes because of you.”

“Cap here’s been renovating a vintage WWII bike,” Natasha says warmly.  “She’s his baby.”

“Wow,” Steve says, eyes lighting up.  “I didn’t know you could find all those parts anymore.”

“Well,” Cap says sheepishly.  “Not _all_ the parts are vintage.  The engine I found was frankly trash so she runs on a modern engine with a few modifications of my own.  But the frame’s properly vintage and in great condition.  She’s shaping up to be a real beauty.”  The waitress wiggles her way through the crowd with their food.

“It’s on the house,” she says, looking a little starry eyed.

“Don’t make him put the price of dinner in the tip jar,” Sam jokes.  “He hates being given free meals.”

“Others deserve free food more than I do,” Steve insists.  “Besides, I have seventy years of back pay to spend.”  There is a generally appreciative chuckle, and at least one dreamy sigh.

“I’d love to see your bike.  There a place around here the two of us can crash for the night?”  The offers for beds and couches come fast and thick.  Eventually Cap wins out, and Steve and Sam have a bed above the Shield Car and Bike Repair in town.

Cap turns out to be Frank Hargraves, roughened by years in and out of jail and married to a rotund and happy short order cook named Marlene.  They have a kid, lost to college and what Marlene wistfully calls the big city.

“Eric’s sharp as a whip,” Marlene says proudly, pulling out the Harvard acceptance letter.  “He’s on full scholarship and everything.  Our small town boy.  Can you imagine?”  Steve smiles at the woman’s bustling joy, warmed by her obvious pleasure in having guests.  Two small beds were made up for him and Sam in a small guest room, and soon Steve was curled up, having said goodnight to his hosts.

“This what you meant by the ‘All American Road trip’?” Steve asks, voice warm as he grins over at Sam.

“It’ll do,” Sam replies.  “And it’s not like you’re not enjoying this.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says with a laugh.  “Good night Sam.  And thank you.”

The next morning, Frank drags Steve out to his shop, greeting the men who work there with bright eyed enthusiasm before taking Steve out back.

“She’s my baby,” Frank says proudly, tossing off the dust cover to reveal the restored bike.  She glimmers in the Arizona sunlight, all polished chrome and deep red.  There is a decal of Steve’s shield on the gas tank, and Steve touches it reverently.

“She’s all ready for a name and an inaugural ride,” Frank says, looking like nothing less than a proud father as he stands at the bike’s head.  “Want to do the honors?”

“Oh I couldn’t,” Steve insisted.  “She’s your bike.”

“And you’re my hero.  Come on, give the girl a name.”  Steve ran his hand down the fuselage, smiling softly.

“The Peggy Carter.”  Frank’s smile is both knowing and tender, and he pours the remains of his drink over the engine.

“Coffee?  Really?”

“Too early for beer,” Frank says dryly and Steve laughs.

~ ~ ~

They find Bucky at the Grand Canyon, of all places.  He’s standing perfectly still in the sea of school children and fat sweating families, staring off at something in the middle distance.  Despite the late summer heat, he’s wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood up and the others, sunburned and pink and laughing, break around him like waves on a rock.  (Steve can see the way their eyes slide off him, the way they can’t quite look at the man standing so still and quiet in the murmuring, moving school of people.)

Steve’s not sure what to do.  After all this time, after how determined Steve was to find Bucky, to bring him home, he isn’t quite sure what to do when faced with the reality of finding Bucky.

“Go,” Sam insists.  “This is your moment.  Don’t let him slip away.”  Steve smiled softly, shrugging slightly.

“Maybe he doesn’t want me to find him.”

“Oh _now_ you’re worrying about that.”  Steve snorts, letting Sam push him towards Bucky.  Steve feels pulled into Bucky’s eddy, just standing there for a long time, not saying anything or even reaching out for Bucky.

“Thought you’d come here,” Bucky says.  His voice is hoarse and a little weak.  Steve isn’t sure if it’s just because he’s been silent or if whatever has been done to him is still coursing through his system.

“Honestly I didn’t think I’d run into you here,” Steve confesses.  “It was Sam’s idea.”

“Come look then.  It’s quite the view.”

Steve follows Bucky to a lookout farther down where there are fewer people.  They press shoulder to shoulder as they stand at the edge.  Steve takes a long look at Bucky’s face then, aching at the ink stain smudges of exhaustion under his eyes.  His skin is pale and hanging off of him and he is as far from the vital, bright man Steve had fallen in love with so long ago.

“You’re staring,” Bucky says flatly and Steve starts.

“Sorry…”

“Scared I was gonna jump?”

“Wasn’t until you mentioned it.”  Bucky’s laugh is ugly and low, and it sends a shudder down Steve’s back.

“If I was gonna jump, I would have weeks ago,” Bucky says, and somehow Steve doesn’t quite believe him.  He doesn’t say anything though.  He doesn’t know if anything he could possibly say would even help.  Bucky…This Bucky seems so far away, so alien to Steve that it’s like he’s talking to a stranger and not his best friend.

(It only occurs to him later that both things can be true at once and the revelation is unsettling.)

“What do you remember?” Steve asks finally.

“Bits and pieces,” Bucky replies.  “It’s hard to understand things without context.  Still can’t believe you once were so little.  I mean, I’ve seen the posters and exhibits and all, but I _remember_ you when you were little like that and it’s…odd.”

“You remember from before?”  Steve’s voice is childlike in its excitement, and Bucky gives a grin that’s a faint memory of the smirk Steve was so familiar with.

“Course I do.  Remember hauling your ass out of a lot of scrapes.”  Steve’s eyes are filled with wonder, the taste of his old friend going right to his head.  Bucky could almost be his old self with a shave and a haircut.

But then the man frowns and Steve notices lines that weren’t there before, frown lines and shadows that shouldn’t be on a man of only 25.

(But Bucky’s not 25, not really.  He is old.  As old as it is possible to be and still look like he was born within the last 2 decades and not before World War Two.  And Steve hates it.  He wants to chase away the shadows and pain until Bucky is a young man again but they both know that’s impossible.)

“Come back with us,” Steve begs, not meeting Bucky’s eyes.  “Come home.”  The silence seems to stretch forever, but when Steve turns to return to Sam and the car, defeated, Bucky follows in silence.

~ ~ ~

Things get a little awkward in hotels rooms now that Bucky is with them.  Bucky doesn’t sleep without coercion, tucking himself by windows and doors with that vacant, sad stare.  At first Steve doesn’t know what to do so he lets Bucky stay awake, but eventually Steve can see the toll its taking and he insists that Bucky take the bed for a night.

“Won’t sleep,” Bucky says,  eyes on the floor.

“Try?” Steve pleads.  “You look absolutely exhausted.”

“I’ll bother all of you when I have nightmares.  Better if I don’t sleep.”

“Even I can’t stay awake forever and you’re not me,” Steve says, squaring up for an argument.  “Take the bed.”  Bucky relents quickly and quietly, and that’s so much worse than if he had put up a fight.  Steve looks helplessly at Sam, who shrugs and returns to folding out the lumpy couch into some semblance of a bed.

When Steve slips into bed, late that night, Sam tucks him close to his chest and gives him a light squeeze.  Steve has to keep from bursting into tears right then and there.

Bucky, despite his fears, sleeps through the night.  When Sam and Steve get up, they don’t have the heart to wake him, and instead go to the front desk to see about extending their stay.  They get the room for an extra night for half price, and Steve pays it without thinking.  Anything to get that gaunt look of exhaustion out of Bucky’s eyes for a little while at least.

When they return, Bucky is awake, blinking at them from a cocoon of blankets.

“You didn’t wake me,” he says flatly.

“You needed the rest,” Steve says gently.  “Got the room for an extra night too, so you don’t have to go anywhere.”  Bucky’s expression is heartbreakingly relieved, and Steve knows he’s not going to run.

But Bucky still feels like a ghost and not a man.  He’s talking a little more with each passing day, but the progress from silence to clipped short and perfunctory sentences doesn’t feel much like progress at all. Steve keeps thinking of the Bucky he knew, loquacious and easy going, prone to chattering rather than silence, and the comparison makes the man in the back seat seem even more like a stranger.

Sam keeps telling him to give it time, that Bucky would never be the same person Steve had known and that Steve needed to accept that and learn to cope.  But Steve isn’t comforted.  Bucky just seems so broken.

Steve catches him watching him one evening.  They are in yet another cramped motel room and Bucky’s perched in the widow.  His face is losing some of the gaunt tightness, and Steve can see a bit of his old lover peeking through when everything is going right.

But right now, Bucky looks positively stormy, and Steve can’t place why.  Things went well today.  Bucky had no flashbacks, hadn’t started at shadows or passersby, and he’d even cracked a few jokes with Sam.  But he’s looking devastated sad, and Steve can’t pretend he doesn’t notice.

Walking over, Steve gives Bucky a friendly and easy-going smile.

“You okay?”

“I think I kissed you once,” Bucky says with a frown.  “Did I, or did I just want to?”

“You did,” Steve replies easily, trying not to read too much into it.  “On my 16th birthday.  I had just gotten back from the hospital and you had been so scared I was going to die.  It was only the once though.”  Steve hopes Bucky doesn’t hear the regret in his voice, doesn’t judge him for how much he wants to kiss the little concerned frown right off of Bucky face.

“Oh…”

Maybe it’s just Steve’s imagination, but the sound seems a little sad, a little heartbroken.  But Bucky doesn’t say anything else, turning to look out the window at the smudges of light pollution of the horizon and Steve pads back to his bed.

~ ~ ~

Steve is still not quite sure why he let Sam convince him and Bucky to go with him to a drag show in Las Vegas.  Something about road trip traditions or something.  Steve can’t really remember now.  He discovered apple moonshine somewhere in Texas and is slightly (well more than slightly if he’s being honest) drunk.

He scans the crowd for Bucky, finding him at the bar with his back to the scantily glad performers lip syncing to music Steve doesn’t know.  (What baffles him most is that they are so obviously men.  Sam told him that was what drag was, and Steve knew the odd cross dresser back in the gay bars in the 40’s but this…this is not quite what he was expecting.  The man on stage isn’t even hiding his penis.)  Making his way through the crowd of laughing people, he sits down beside Bucky.

The man doesn’t even turn to recognize him, staring mournfully down into his glass.  Steve is not sure exactly what’s in the violently red, white and blue drink, but he knows better than to comment.  Bucky takes a large swig of it and makes a face.  Steve winces when he notices half the drink was gone in that one swig.  Bucky’s not drinking it to enjoy it then.

“You wanna talk, Buck?”

“This was a dumb idea.”

“Ah, come on.  Sam’s having fun.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve said.  “Surely there’s a pretty dame out there for you to lose yourself in for a while.”  Bucky just snorted, dropping his gaze back into his drink.

“Fine, spoilsport.  Don’t kill yourself with stupid drinks, okay?”

Steve’s a lot drunker when he sees Bucky next.  There’s another stupid drink in front of him, this one red and gold.  (Steve can’t help but smile, thinking of Tony.)

“What number silly Avengers cocktail is that?” Steve asks warmly, syllables rounded with the accent of his childhood.

“Too many.  God, Steve look at them.  They have no idea how close they were to being wiped off the face of the earth and it would have been my fault.”

“Buck, you know it wasn’t you,” Steve said softly, sitting down next to Bucky.  “You weren’t yourself.”

“But I _remember_ , Steve.”  Bucky blinks quickly, eyes red rimmed.  Steve can’t help but remember the way Bucky looked when Steve first found him, eyes red rimmed under all the black paint, face sallow and drawn.

“Buck…”

“God Steve, how have you remained so goddamned good all this time?” Bucky breaths, sagging into Steve’s touch.  “I could never be like you.”

“Come on, Buck, you’re my best friend for a reason, you know.”  Bucky gives a dry huff.

“Don’t know why you’re still with someone like me.”

“You stuck by me when no one else did,” Steve says softly.  “I’d be a crap friend if I didn’t do the same.”  Bucky gave Steve a tiny little smile before taking another swig of his drink.  Steve counts it as a victory.

Sam wants to dance, and Steve can’t say no, not when they’re blasting classic Marvin Gaye.  (Sam had been right about this one.  Steve loved this music.)  Steve still feels clumsy, feet not quite cooperating, but he just closes his eyes, letting the music get down into his bones, and things seem to go just fine.

 But when Steve looks up again, Bucky isn’t at the bar, and Steve feels his heart clench.  He can’t see Bucky anywhere and after all the work Steve did to find Bucky, he prays his friend hasn’t bolted.  But as he walks the edges, he sees Bucky in a shadowy corner, belt over a bottle.  Even a yard away, Steve can smell the vodka.

“Gimmie that,” Steve says softly, reaching for the bottle.  “You’ve been drinking all night, and unlike me, you don’t have an enhanced liver.”  Bucky looked up, eyes raking over Steve’s body, making Steve shiver uncertainly.

“God you’re beautiful,” Bucky slurs.  “Even when you were skinny and thin as a rail you were beautiful.  Was it selfish of me, not telling you I was a faggot?”  Steve tilts his head, unsure what Bucky meant.  He had always been chasing dames, always had dates.  Had that all been a ruse?

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you have any idea how many nights I came with my hand on my dick and your name in my mouth?  How desperately I wanted to kiss every curve of your ribs and lick your collarbone?  And then you fucking walked in like a wet dream and I was gone.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Steve says, fighting to hide his own interest.  Thinking straight is _hard_ when drunk.

“The only thing the drink has changed is my brain to mouth filter.”  It startles a laugh out of Steve, and Bucky’s face goes soft.

“Laugh more,” Bucky says.  “You have such a pretty laugh.”

  1.   Not quite the word Steve expected.  Pretty is for dames and ladies and girls, not drunken laughter in a gay bar in Las Vegas.  But Buck’s never lied to him, not about things like this and it leaves Steve shivering with both expectation and dread.



“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks.

“Not if it’s out of pity.”

“And if I told you that Billy Howe and his gang had always been right about me?”  Steve says, voice low.  “That there’s been a part of me that was always grateful dames never gave me a second glance when you were in the room?”

“Then shut up and fucking kiss me.”

Bucky tastes like vodka and anger.  Natasha had tried to get him into Russian vodka, but Steve had found it bitter and too sharp for enjoying.  (Perhaps you drank vodka to get drunk, Steve reflects as Bucky tangled his hands in the short hairs in the back of Steve’s neck.)

But it’s fitting.  Bucky’s metal arm is digging bruises in Steve’s thigh where Bucky has dragged them close and Steve can almost imagine that he’s little again, sitting on Bucky’s lap on a crowded subway or pressed shoulder to shoulder at a dance.

“Now that’s a sight.”

Steve and Bucky fly apart, Steve’s face going red as he sees Sam standing there with a huge grin on his face.

“Hey, no judging.  Hell, if I could make out with Captain America like that, you better believe I would take full advantage.”

“You can join us if you want.”  Steve knows that’s the alcohol talking, but Sam’s grin is splitting his face and Steve doesn’t have the heart to take it back.  Besides, he likes Sam, likes him a lot, and if there’s anyone he’s going to pick up at a gay bar, it’s his two best friends.

There is glitter everywhere, floating in the air and coating the floor.  The exit to the hotel is by the stage, and as the three of them make their way towards it, they are cornered by a performer wearing nothing but a rather suggestive thong that hides absolutely nothing and a pair of Captain America shield pasties.

“Glitter bomb!”  Steve sneezes violently when a cloud of red, white and blue glitter gets thrown on the three of them.  Sam is laughing, sandwiched between the two of them.  They shake off as much of the glitter as they can, still fumbling with each other as they head to their hotel room.  The beds are twins, and with a heave, Steve pushes the two of them together, dragging Bucky down once the beds were together.  The drink has made Steve itchy in his skin as he kisses Bucky, the extra set of hands on his body making him shudder.  Sam is kissing his shoulder blades as he hands wander down Steve’s back to squeeze his ass.  Bucky for his part, is shivering and unsure under Steve, metal arm clenched in the sheets.  He almost seems shy about it, hunched as if he doesn’t want Steve to see it.

That just makes Steve more interested in exploring it.

Sam somehow beats him to it, lightly tracing the scars where the metal joins skin.  They are angry and red still, though they must be years old.

“Does it hurt?” Sam asks, kissing the skin and making Bucky shudder.

“Physically?  Not really.  Get plenty of ghost pains.”  Bucky’s voice is low and hesitant, and Steve can’t stand it.  Bucky is fighting not to pull away.  Steve can tell.  And he hates it.  Working as one, Sam and Steve begin to touch and caress the hand.  Steve doesn’t know how much Bucky can feel, but clearly he can feel something, because he’s shuddering and whispering against Steve’s neck in broken Russian.  Steve has been taking lessons from Natasha, but he still can’t really understand most of the breathy endearments and pleas that are falling from Bucky’s mouth.

“You know how to pick em, Steve,” Sam murmurs.  Their legs are all tangled up, Bucky sandwiched between Sam and Steve.  It’s nice for Steve to just touch again, to bury his face in Bucky’s hair and trace the unexpectedly supple muscles in Sam’s arms.  Steve is hard, painfully so, and the sound he draws from Bucky when they rock together makes both Steve and Sam moan.

“So how are we doing this?” Sam asks, tracing Bucky’s hip bone.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks.  “I…I’ve never done anything like this…”

“Well, we could keep doing what we have been, or we could fuck, or finger each other or suck each other off.  I’d like to suck your cock Steve.  It’s so pretty.  Besides, I still owe you from that night before.”  Even naked as the day he was born, Steve blushes as red as a tomato.  Sam touches his cheek reverently and Steve’s blush deepens.

“Steve I want you to fuck me,” Bucky announces, startling the others.  Steve looks at Sam, expression wanting and hesitant all at once, and Sam smiles.

“I’ll walk you through it, Cap.  Bucky, on your stomach and get a pillow to prop up your hips.” Sam reaches over, rifling through the drawer until he found a little lube, stifling a snort when he saw that it had edible glitter in it, red, white and blue, no less.

“You always wanna start slow,” Sam says, snapping the cap open and squirting a little lube on his finger.  “Touch lightly, tease.”  Bucky jumps as Sam strokes a warm finger over his ass, massaging the fluttering muscle.  Steve stares, utterly entranced by the way Bucky shuddered and moaned.

Between the two of them, soon Bucky is squirming and gasping, rutting against the pillow.  Steve has two fingers in his ass, working Bucky open with a focus that’s adorable.  Sam is littering Steve’s shoulders with little nips and kisses, smiling whenever Steve’s focus wavers.  He loves the way Steve’s pulse hammers under his tongue and the way he tastes like sweat.  The curves of Steve’s body fit perfectly with Sam’s and they are rutting together and Sam is sure he won’t last with the heady press of Steve Rogers against him.

“I’m ready,” Bucky gasps.

“Condom,” Sam says, voice breathy and a little choked as he grabs one from the bathroom.  Steve must not be a complete virgin, because Sam doesn’t have to explain how condoms work, which Sam is oddly thankful for.

Steve is glacially slow as he presses in, and Bucky hisses and whines, hooking his feet around Steve’s waist and trying to rock Steve deeper.  Sam pulls away, taking his own cock in hand.  He feels a little bit like a third wheel, the way Steve stares at Bucky so intently, but he can hardly complain, given the show he’s being given. 

It’s such a beautiful dance, all hands and bodies and sweat and gasping moans of each other’s names.  Steve looks up, meeting Sam’s eyes with the most tender of expressions, and Sam is gone, tipped over into what he is sure will be the best orgasm of his life, Steve’s name a burbled prayer on his lips.

Steve didn’t know it was possible for him to wake up with a hangover since the serum.  The pounding headache and cotton mouth prove otherwise.  Steve has only felt this bad once, after he’d been so upset that Bucky had been dancing with someone else that he had ordered and drank three beers in one night.

The light hurts, and Steve rolls over, covering his face.  The smell of food is both inviting and nauseating, and Steve just wants to go back to bed.

An arm flops over his chest, making Steve start, head spinning.  Peeling his bleary eyes back open, he couldn’t help but smile when he saw Bucky, metal arm flopped over his face.  Sam was nowhere to be seen, but Steve could here banging around in another room of the suite and didn’t worry too much.  Drifting back to sleep, Steve was oddly content, raging headache and all.

He wakes a few hours later, headache all but gone.  The familiar smell of crap coffee is filling the room, and he gets up with a yawn, padding into the living room of the suite.  Sam looks disgustingly chipper, yanking sausage and French toast out of the microwave.

“Got us room service,” he says, pressing a cup of coffee into Steve’s hands.  “The coffee’s black, but there is cream and sugar on the desk.”  Steve just takes a long draw, wincing slightly at the burnt bitter taste.  The war had given a high tolerance for bad coffee, but this was exceptionally bad and sugar and cream wouldn’t fix it.  Better to just slug it down.

The food, on the other hand, was a much more pleasant experience.  As soon as Steve took a bite, he found that we was ravenous and ate two whole plates before slowing down.

“Knew it was a good idea to get extra food,” Sam says with a laugh as Steve put his fork aside with a content groan.  Its then that Steve looks up, remembering the ghost of Sam’s touch.

“Sam, I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says softly.

“We took advantage of you.”

“Did I do anything but enthusiastically consent?” Sam asks, shaking his head.  “God, that was the best sex of my life, and the only disappointment is that it’s probably not going to happen again.”  Steve looks questioningly at Sam.

“Come on Steve,” Sam sighs.  “I’ve seen the way you look at him.  There is no way you’re not stupidly in love with him.  I’m not going to get in the way of that.”

“I like you, Sam,” Steve says softly.  “A lot.  You…you’ve been a better friend that I deserved, than I ever could have asked for.  Being with you…it’s not like being with Bucky, at least not anymore.  I don’t want to lose that.”

“You haven’t lost me,” Sam reassures him.  “Gonna take a lot more than one night of good sex to change that.”

“And it _was_ good for you?”

“Haven’t had an orgasm that hard since I was a teenager.”  That makes Steve smile despite everything, and seeing it mirrored in Sam’s own face makes the last of Steve’s doubts melt away.

 

~ ~ ~

They get to the west coast in time for the sunset, the sun twinkling on the water as they spread out their blanket.  Bucky is quiet, too quiet for Steve’s taste.  He can’t help but wonder if Bucky regrets the night before.  The thought leaves Steve cold.

Sam, however, is practically bouncy, rolling up his pants and taking off his shoes and splashing around in the cresting foam.  Steve is utterly captivated.  The sunlight makes him look golden, his dark brown skin seeming to glow from the inside.  Civilian life hasn’t melted the firm planes of muscle from Sam’s form, though he is long and leggy compared to Steve’s heavy bulk.

“Handsome fella.”  There is jealous wistfulness in Bucky’s voice as he follows Steve’s gaze to where Sam is skipping stones in the surf, murmuring softly to himself.

“He is,” Steve agreed, scooting closer to Bucky on the beach blanket.  Bucky’s gaze is hooded and doubtful, and Steve can’t help but smile.  So that is what this is about.

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Oh come on,” Steve goaded, nudging Bucky.  “You totally are.”  But there is no levity in Bucky’s face.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Bucky said softly.  “Even if I was, you deserve someone like him, not a broken person like me.”

“And what if you’re the one I want?”

“Are you really telling me that you look at him with that sort of devotion and don’t love him?”  Steve doesn’t have an answer for that, because he knows Bucky is right.  He doesn’t just look at Sam the way he looks at Natasha or Tony or Bruce but he knows, deep down in the fiber of his being, that he loves Bucky.  The realization is confusing and frightening and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“But I want you…”  Bucky gives Steve a sad little smile, leaning over to give Steve a soft kiss.  The kiss, uninhibited by vodka or pain, is sweet and soft and hesitant and Steve feels his whole body go soft and wanting.  Bucky’s metal hand presses into the small of his back as if he wants to merge with Steve, clinging so close it was like their heartbeats became one, breath mingling warmly against their faces.

“I don’t know how I feel about Sam,” Steve murmurs, cupping Bucky’s cheek.  “But I do know I love you, Buck, and that I always have.  Have faith in that.”

They sleep on the beach because Sam says there is a meteor shower peaking that night and Steve has never seen a shooting star before.  They eat sandwiches and lukewarm coke by the light of the stars reflected on the rocking water.  The air is dry and a little dusty blowing off the scrubland and sand, but it carries the tang of salt and sweetness and the faint hint of decomposing seaweed.  The night is beautiful and so is the company, and for the first time since they set out, Steve feels like he might be beginning to find what he was looking for.

“Look!” Sam says, pointing up at a glittering streak of silver light flickering across the sky.  The warm press of sand and the dancing stars feel magical, and simple and almost infantile joy rushing through Steve.

“Make a wish,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve wishes that the night would never end.

They spend days doffing around on the beach, eating out of Sam’s battered pick-up truck and getting sunburned swimming.  Steve even manages to tan, no small miracle with the turn-over of his cells.  He’s peeling all the time to Sam’s endless amusement.  “White boys,” he says with an exasperated but fond sigh.  But even salt, sand and sunshine grow old, and Bucky begins to complain about the burning ache of his bright red nose and Sam starts begging for a shower.

They drive to a nearby motel and Steve drinks five glasses of water and spends half an hour under the cool spray of the shower, coming out with his hair tufted like a baby bird’s feathers.  Bucky’s expression is torn between sadness and fondness and Steve can’t help but kiss the pout away.

They are debating the cost of plane tickets when Steve finally gives in and calls Tony to see if he can help.  Tony informs him that a private jet will be waiting for them in the morning.

“What about Sam’s truck?”

“I’ll send Happy over to drive it home.  Don’t worry about it.”

So Steve doesn’t.

Coming home to Avengers Tower feel strange.  The tower feels uncomfortably big after weeks of sharing trucks and hotel rooms with two other people.  It’s a restless sort of strangeness which leaves Steve at loose ends.  Not even the punching bag or pommel horse provides the comfort it used to.

So he finds himself spending a lot of time at Sam’s, Bucky a quiet shadow.  The flat is small but the bed is big, and they spend a lot of time tangled up together and catching up on the 70 years of movies Steve missed.

(Steve loves Disney and Frank Sinatra and finds shocking pleasure in 80’s pulp film, while Bucky finds himself in Marlon Brando and psychological horror.)

Steve’s personal research takes place late at night when the serum demands his consciousness and includes google searches like ‘queer’ and ‘gay’ and later ‘swinging’ and ‘polyamory’.  He sneaks books out of the library with titles like “BDSM for Beginners” and “Kink and You”, hiding them under his bed because he’s never lost the fear that he’d be punished for it.  Part of he knows it’s foolish, snatching little bits here and there, but late at night, it’s easier to face himself.

One particularly bold evening of experimentation involves silk stockings like the ones Peggy used to wear, with seams up the back and everything.  (Steve can’t get over that these are now considered ‘vintage’.)  The silk feels cool and smooth against his legs and Steve can’t help but flex his toes and imagine he’s wearing heels.

Steve decides he likes the word ‘queer’.  (He loved Peggy, he really did, but he can’t deny the seduction of angular torsos and broad shoulders and callused hands.)  He’s a little less sure about the term ‘bisexual’.  It doesn’t quite fit right, though he loves men and women both.  But then again, Steve Rogers has never been that fond of labels.

When Steve’s sorted all of this out, he sits Bucky and Sam down at the tiny little dinner table, a home cooked meal sitting before them.

“Uh oh,” Sam teases.  “We about to get a break-up speech?”  All the carefully prepared words clog in Steve’s throat and he sits down heavily.

“Forget it.”

“Steve, what’s wrong?” Sam says softly, the levity falling away as he takes in Steve’s obvious distress.  Bucky is on edge too eyes wide.

“I…I love you.  Both.”  Once the words started, Steve couldn’t seem to rein them back.  “I’ve been doing some research.  Apparently it’s called polyamory?  All I know is that I’ve never been happier than when I’m here with the two of you and I want you to know how much I love you and need you.  Please…I hope this doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, Steve,” Sam says tenderly, reaching up to brush a hand across Steve’s cheek.  “You know this changes nothing.  Having you two here has been amazing, as bumpy as living with a recovering brainwashed Soviet assassin can be.”  Bucky’s laugh is surprisingly warm.  These weeks have been good for him, and getting a little bit of his Bucky back through all the nightmares and stress and vacant stares has been the best thing Steve could have ever asked for.

“Yeah, always knew you were a little queer, even back then,” Bucky chimes in and Sam snorts.  Steve is so giddy with relief that he can’t help but lean over and kiss Bucky deeply, just enjoying the soft, warm press of lips against his.

They fall into bed pretty quickly after that, touching and exploring each other in a way that was different from the alcohol and pain infused night they had shared before, and Steve can’t help but be a little hesitant.

“Lie down,” Bucky insists, stripping off Steve’s clothes.  “I want to touch you.”  Sam gets an odd little glint in his eyes, and Steve just lies back.  Bucky and Sam are two of the most stubborn and determined people he knows, and he knows that they won’t be deterred from whatever idea is in their heads.

Steve’s world quickly narrows down into flashes of sensation.  Sam’s warm soft hands and Bucky’s callused and cool ones.  An unexpectedly sensitive spot under his ear that makes him squirm when someone bites down on it.  Gentle words murmured in his ear, hot breath puffing across his cheek.  A hand tangled tightly in his hair. Two mouths on his cock.  When he comes, it’s like an inevitable tide, rushing over him and leaving him spent and shuddering as he slowly comes back to himself.

“Damn,” Sam breathes reverently, cleaning himself off with a wad of tissues.  Steve giggles, loose and content.

“A fella could get used to be treated like this,” Steve says warmly, and Sam laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART for "We're Not Broken, Just Bent (And We Can Learn to Love Again)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629757) by [Feanor_in_leather_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/pseuds/Feanor_in_leather_pants)




End file.
